


Unimpeachable

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Wish 'Verse [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Manhandling, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 14:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16641936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Washington is no longer president, and Hamilton is done waiting.





	Unimpeachable

Hamilton waits.

He never falters. He's too stubborn, and too selfish, and too single-minded to lose sight of a good thing. He’s never wanted anything this desperately in his life—though he's wanted a hell of a lot of things—but at least he has the consolation of knowing Washington wants him too.

Even if there's no tangible proof. Even if Washington has not touched him again. Even if Washington hasn't said a single word about the night they spent together or Hamilton's helpless plea.

 _You won't be president forever_.

Five years is a long damn time, and Hamilton feels every second of it acutely. Every time Washington looks at him with poorly concealed heat, then looks away before anyone else can notice. Every time Hamilton wakes at his desk, asleep in his office instead of home in his bed, and wishes he could just go upstairs to the Residence, consequences be damned. Every time they're alone together and Washington is careful not to touch him.

It's Washington's care that makes him certain the matter truly isn't closed. Washington wouldn't look at him with such intensity, wouldn't be so cautious or tightly wound, if his feelings had taken a turn toward indifference. Washington still wants Alexander, no matter how thoroughly he keeps his hands to himself. 

His self-restraint is impressive, honestly. If Hamilton were the one calling the shots, they would have transgressed a hundred times in the past five years. Hell, it's amazing the scandal hasn't broken just from the way Hamilton _looks_ at the man—never mind the way Washington looks at him—especially considering how much time they both spend in front of cameras.

Somehow no one has figured it out. Hell, more than once the gossip columns have put him in a secret relationship with Elizabeth Schuyler instead. It's a misconception Hamilton hasn't been fussed about refuting, all things considered. Eliza finds the situation more amusing than troubling. And Hamilton… Well. Eliza's a good friend, and she improves reputations just by _smiling at people in public_. He could do a lot worse than having constituents assume he's going to marry a Schuyler.

Anyone who actually knows either one of them can tell how ridiculous the notion truly is, but Hamilton's too smart to needlessly throw away an advantage.

It doesn't make the waiting easier. By the time Washington's second term ends, Hamilton is going mad with impatience, and even then there's nothing he can do. Not right away. Not when there are still dozens of formalities to contend with. There's almost as much red tape involved in _ceasing_ to be president as there is in taking office in the first place.

In the end, Hamilton can't make his move while they're still in the Capitol. It doesn't feel right, doing this in any of the places they've lived, worked, existed during the past eight years. There's too much history. Too much change. This is a new chapter in his life, and he can't start writing it on the pages of the old one.

There are practical considerations too. It's only smart to make his case—to renew his appeal— _elsewhere_. Doing it in D.C. is just asking to be spotted, and Washington has made no secret of his desire to be out of the spotlight for a while. The last thing he needs is Hamilton drawing the public's attention with fresh gossip.

Fortunately, now that he's out, Hamilton is between jobs. Workaholic that he is, his government salary left him enough money to squirrel away; he can afford to dick around while he decides what to pursue next.

Which means there's nothing to stop him booking a flight to Virginia.

He's been to Washington's estate a scant handful of times, and he knows from previous visits how massive the property is. How green and gorgeous and well-tended. Washington comes from old money, and stepping into the sweeping main foyer sets Hamilton's head spinning.

There's no staff to take his luggage, and he’s glad. For one thing, even after eight years in the White House he still feels strange being waited on. For another, he hasn't called ahead, hasn't made sure of his welcome, doesn't actually know if he'll be staying.

He _wants_ to stay. God, he wants it so much. For Washington to hear him out and say yes. For his presence to be welcome. For his luggage to belong in the master suite.

But five years is a long damn time to cling to a one-night stand and an unspoken understanding. What if he's got this wrong? Whether Washington still wants him or not, he could still send Alexander away.

Of course now that Hamilton is here, he faces a new conundrum: this house is fucking _huge_. It's a sweeping manor, all high ceilings and pretentious architecture. The pristine walls are interrupted often by framed paintings and enormous windows. It's a literal mansion, and Washington could be anywhere.

Hamilton's only option is to leave his bags by the door and go searching. He's been here before; he remembers the layout of the place, more or less. Yes, he's technically trespassing, but it's not like he broke in. Washington gave him the security code years ago; it's been taking up space in Hamilton's brain ever since. What's the harm in using the information, now that it's finally useful?

He tries the library first—sunny and wide open and inviting—but Washington isn't there. It's a beautiful room. A bibliophile's paradise. The walls are covered in shelves, and every shelf is packed solid with book spines. It's enough to make Hamilton salivate.

But this is a room intended to impress, gorgeous and impersonal. Not the place a newly obligation-free former president would go simply to exist in his own space.

Hamilton detours down a different hallway, angling for the wing where he remembers Washington's private rooms. The ceiling isn't quite so high here, the carpet isn't quite so new. Even the air feels more alive. Less like some kind of art gallery, more like a _home_.

The hall is dim, lit by the soft, steady glow of sunset through a window at the western end. The sconces along the wall are dark, but that's fine. Hamilton's got light enough to see by, and the shadows are dark enough for him to spot the only door with a strip of light along the bottom.

The light is the wrong color to be natural sunlight, which means Washington is in there. He has to be.

Hamilton reaches the door and hesitates. He didn't think this far ahead, and now he's second-guessing himself. He _should_ have phoned ahead. He should have made sure he was welcome. He should at the very least have signaled his arrival somehow. The last thing he wants is to give Washington a heart attack.

Too late for that now. Hamilton draws a deep breath, as steady as he can manage, and taps his knuckles against the door.

Washington's voice calls out in answer, tone wry. "I told you to _go home_ , Henry. I pay you too much overtime as it is."

Well. At least he hasn't given Washington a heart attack. Hamilton sets a hand to the latch and pushes the door inward, stepping across the threshold with a show of confidence he does not remotely feel.

"I'm not Henry," he announces as he shuts the door firmly behind him. He can't figure out how to lock it, but empty as those rooms and hallways are, surely it won't matter.

When he finally puts his back to the door, he finds Washington staring at him. Wide eyes show too much white, and Washington's mouth hangs ajar.

Hamilton takes a deliberate step toward the center of the room.

It's an office—an enormous private study—with broad bookcases full of eclectic titles, an armchair in one corner, two identical windows on adjoining walls. Heavy curtains blot out the setting sun.

Washington sits in a tall-backed chair behind a colossal desk.

He is still staring. He holds a pen in his right hand, frozen on its way to the page of an open notebook.

Hamilton considers his options.

He has no idea what possesses him to bypass the dozen more urgent matters and say, "You should cap your pen before the nib dries out."

Washington gives a visible start at the admonition, and fumbles the cap on, sets the fountain pen aside with a careless clatter as he rushes to his feet. He rounds the desk still wearing the same incredulous look, not stopping until he stands directly in front of Hamilton. There is a glint of genuine confusion; a familiar furrow at the very center of Washington's heavy brow.

"Alexander, what are you doing here?"

Hamilton swallows his nerves and tries to sound confident. "I needed to see you. Talk to you."

"We've been in nearly constant contact," Washington points out, far too reasonably considering how long Hamilton has waited for _this_ conversation. It's not as though he's wrong; wrapping up a presidential administration is, it turns out, a time-consuming matter. The entire team has been communicating ceaselessly. After eight years living in each other's pockets, there is a great deal of business to untangle before they can all go their separate ways. On to new careers, new goals, new political aspirations.

None of that is why Hamilton is here, and he shakes his head. "You know that's not why I came."

The bald surprise fades, replaced with something more cautious. Washington's only reply is a hesitant, "Alexander?"

Hamilton straightens his posture and takes a step forward. Putting himself close enough to touch, but keeping his arms at his sides for the moment. His heart pounds so sharply he can feel it in his temples, and his face is warm. The tight sensation in his chest could as easily be fear as anticipation.

He stares defiantly. "You're not president anymore."

Washington's eyes widen, and his jaw drops, and he does not say a word.

"I told you I would wait," Hamilton says, antsy in the silence. "You said—" He cuts himself short, both because he recognizes the threatening torrent of words, and because his protest isn't actually true. _You said I could wait for you_.

Washington _didn't_ say it, though. Not in words. Hamilton doesn't think he imagined their moment of understanding, powerful arms closing around him and holding tight. But Washington _didn't say the words_ , and now Hamilton finds himself awash in doubt more potent than any of his previous uncertainties.

Washington is standing so utterly still. Making no move to close the scant distance between them, offering no reassurance at all. His surprise holds so steadily that Hamilton's heart gives a shattering pulse in response. It's difficult to see _any_ possible conclusion but one.

Washington does not want him here after all.

Hamilton's face burns with humiliation as he drops his gaze down and to the side. "I'm sorry." He stares at the carpet as he says the words. "I can leave if you want. If you don't— I should've called first. I'll just… I'll go. I'm sorry." Stilted, awkward, hurt. No clever words to protect him.

He shifts his weight and turns to retreat.

Washington's hand closes on his arm, gripping just above the elbow. Holding on hard.

"Please don't leave." Washington's voice is small and… scared? Hamilton doesn't think he's _ever_ heard Washington sound scared before. It throws him, but not enough to prevent the surge of relief that Washington _wants him to stay_.

Hamilton turns, raises his eyes, and very pointedly makes no attempt to withdraw his arm from Washington's grip. The fact that Washington doesn't let go once he's got Hamilton's attention… It's impossible to tell if it's thoughtless or deliberate, but Hamilton doesn't really care either way. Just so long as Washington keeps touching him.

"I'm just surprised you're here," Washington admits in the same uncharacteristically small voice.

"You didn't expect me to come so soon?"

Washington visibly hesitates, but a moment later admits, "I didn't expect you to come at all." He looks miserable as he says it, a truly tragic figure. Hamilton is almost offended to realize Washington assumed he wouldn't follow through on his promise.

But then, five years is a long time, and they haven't spoken of this since Hamilton's initial plea. Maybe the force of Washington's doubt is not so unreasonable.

Hamilton doesn't mean to sound plaintive, but a hurt edge creeps into his voice. "I told you I would wait." He meant it with all his heart. He's never faltered in his convictions, no matter how painful the waiting sometimes became. He's never felt for anyone the way he feels for Washington, and five years haven't changed anything—haven’t lessened the strength of his infatuation—have not _once_ made him doubt his course.

Washington's hand falls aside, and Hamilton is bereft at its loss.

 _You didn't believe me_? The question nearly sneaks out, but Hamilton clenches his jaw and contains the words. He feels suddenly vulnerable. Washington knows him too well _not_ to recognize the glimmer of hurt. And god, worse than vulnerable, he feels ridiculous, wondering if he's misread any of a hundred unspoken signals.

Restlessness and movement have _always_ accompanied insecurity in Hamilton's mind, so he moves now. Steps past Washington—farther into the room—because he is not yet ready to concede defeat. He may be unsteady and wrong-footed, maybe even a little bit scared, but he’s no coward. Stubbornness and want have brought him this far. They will see him the rest of the way through.

Washington _doesn't want him to leave_. That is a starting point at least.

Hamilton stops before Washington's enormous desk. Besides the open notebook, there’s correspondence scattered across the surface—handwritten letters—and in one corner a closed laptop computer. Washington's chair sits empty directly across from him, and Hamilton imagines how comfortable the worn leather must be. How warm and soft and _safe_.

"I'm sorry." Washington moves closer behind him, not enough to invade Hamilton's personal space but enough to feel like a pursuit. "I just didn't expect… I thought you would be…" A pause, a deep inhale, and Washington at last asks, "What about Eliza?"

Hamilton's brow knits and he turns to face Washington once more. He tries not to sound scathing when he blurts, "You're joking."

Washington stares, a flummoxed look on his handsome face.

And. Well. At least now Hamilton understands Washington’s shocked. Why he seems… not disbelieving exactly, but flabbergasted that Hamilton is here to make good on a conversation five years out of date. Hamilton shakes off the defensiveness that tries to rise in his chest. He sets aside frustration at the fact that _Washington_ , of all people, was taken in by rumors with no vestige of truth. He pushes down the biting retort that threatens to escape him, because Washington deserves better.

When he feels closer to calm, Hamilton hoists himself up to sit on to the edge of Washington's desk, perching as though he has any right to occupy this space. Washington's eyes track his every movement, and Hamilton's pulse speeds under the attention. God, he’s waited so impatiently for this conversation. Now he is _here_ , and Washington is finally within reach, and nothing is going the way he imagined.

"Eliza's not my girlfriend, or my fiancé, or whatever the hell those tabloids are saying." Hamilton curls both hands around the edge of the desk to either side of his perch, doing his best to keep his grip loose. "We're not together like that. We never have been." Hamilton wasn't interested—his heart was already spoken for—but even under different circumstances it wouldn't have happened. Elizabeth Schuyler is not the slightest bit attracted to _him_.

Hamilton does not offer up this information. If Washington doesn't already know Eliza’s inclinations—and clearly he doesn't—it sure as hell isn't Hamilton's place to enlighten him.

Washington looks stunned by the pronouncement, and takes a single thoughtless step forward. The halting movement doesn’t _quite_ bring him near enough for Hamilton to reach out and reel him in.

So fucking close.

There’s an embarrassingly plaintive note in Hamilton's voice when he asks, "Did you really think I would do that to you?" It would be unforgivably hurtful. To change his mind and not say something? To leave Washington wondering in the dark, while Hamilton pursued someone else?

He knows he can be careless of people's feelings, but he’s never in his life been knowingly cruel.

"Alexander," Washington breathes, as though he’s forgotten how to say anything else.

"I told you I would wait," Hamilton repeats. He hates how helpless he sounds. How vulnerable. It’s the exact opposite of how he told himself this conversation would go.

"That was five years ago." Washington takes another involuntary forward step before jolting to a stop once more. "You didn't owe me anything. I had no standing to be possessive. You _were not mine_."

" _Yes I was_ ," Hamilton blurts, too loud, too fierce. He sounds desperate, and his shoulders have tensed up to his ears.

The outburst stuns Washington silent.

Hamilton's face is hot, his heart noisy chaos, his chest uncomfortably tight with feeling. He's shaking. God, he's waited so long for this. He can't bear the sudden fear that Washington might send him away.

It's all he can do to keep the tremble out of his voice when he says, "I'm still yours. If you want me."

Washington's expression eases back from surprise, softens into something hesitant and hopeful. "My dear boy, of course I still want you."

Those words spin through Hamilton's chest, igniting fresh fire everywhere they touch.

"Then why aren't you over here?" Tension eases from his posture by degrees. _Why aren't you touching me_ , is what he means.

Washington takes another step forward in answer, this one obviously deliberate. It puts him directly in front of Hamilton, so close his thighs nearly brush against Hamilton's knees. It is a distinct improvement—especially given the spark of heat kindling behind Washington's gorgeous eyes—but it's not enough.

Hamilton shifts his hands from the edge of the desk so he can lean back on his palms. He waits a heartbeat, then pointedly spreads his legs.

"Closer," he says, and thrills at the way Washington's eyes sear into him.

Washington closes the last of the distance, fitting his bulk welcome and snug between Hamilton's parted thighs. His hands hover uncertainly for a moment, apparently unsure where to settle, before at last rising to frame Alexander's face. 

Thumbs brush the hot flush of Hamilton’s cheeks, fingers curling smooth and strong along his jaw. Even sitting on the high edge of Washington's desk, he has to tilt his head back to meet those piercing eyes. But that's fine. It's _more than fine_. Washington is finally touching him, all that size and strength crowded close, and Hamilton could not be more delighted.

"You're really here." Washington sounds like he still can't quite believe it. Even his eyes seem unsure where to settle, restless as he takes Hamilton in.

"You gonna stare longingly all night?" Hamilton teases, emboldened. "Or are you going to kiss me?"

He can see the sliver of hesitation in Washington's face—the moment Washington almost asks, _are you sure_ —but he also sees better sense win out. Hamilton would not have asked if he weren't sure. He would not be here at all.

Five years has only solidified his certainty, and he closes his eyes as Washington's face lowers toward his—breathes a delighted sound when their lips finally meet. It's a measured kiss. Not hesitant, but careful in a way Washington wasn’t five years ago. Washington keeps it light, tentative, slow. He parts his lips for Hamilton's hinting tongue, but even here he is cautious. Allowing Hamilton to set the pace. Claiming his own explorations only when Hamilton breathes a needy sound and presses harder against him.

Hamilton is breathing hard when they part, despite the gentleness of the kiss. Arousal sings beneath his skin, and he is hard. Hungrily, shamelessly hard. He's clinging to Washington's arms with a desperation he will not bother denying.

Washington lets go of him and braces both hands on the desk, pressing palms flat to either side of Hamilton's hips.

After an eternity of wordless eye contact, Washington ducks his head, nudging beneath Hamilton's jaw with his nose. Not quite nuzzling—more like he's trying to hide his face, riled and overwhelmed. His breath is warm over Hamilton's skin, his lips a teasing after-thought just shy of a kiss.

God, Hamilton wants more. He wants to tumble Washington over whatever stubborn edge still holds him back. Wants to unlock the frantic passion from their only night together. He's ready for it this time. He's spent five goddamn years waiting for more. He hasn't been celibate—Alexander Hamilton does not have that kind of self-restraint—but there's been no one who mattered. No one who made him stop thinking, even briefly, about the day it would be Washington's hands on him again.

There are no barriers between them now: no disparity of power, no professional connection, no valid reason for them _not_ to do this. Sure, it'll be a scandal if they're found out, but it can't do nearly enough harm to dissuade Hamilton. Any risk to his own career is worth it if he can have Washington for himself. And as for Washington…

Well.

Congress can't impeach a _former_ president of the United States.

Hamilton lets go of Washington's biceps—slides his hands lower, enjoying the feel of powerful muscle beneath thin shirt sleeves—and then wraps his arms around the thick waist. He tugs Washington tighter against him, an action with the side benefit of confirming Hamilton isn't the only one turned on. Washington is hard too. Fuck, it is _maddening_ , and it is not enough. An agonizing sensation of heat and insufficient friction, a tease of contact through too many layers of clothing

With difficulty—and without letting go—Hamilton manages to ask, "Are you okay? Is _this_ okay?"

Washington shivers, tremble moving through him so intensely Hamilton can feel it in all the places they’re touching. Another moment and Washington's face nuzzles more deliberately beneath his jaw. Lips press hot to Hamilton's rocketing pulse point.

For an irrational moment, Hamilton wonders if this is some clever attempt to evade the question.

Then Washington answers, "Yes," branding the words into overheated skin. "I'm glad you're here, my boy."

Hamilton draws a shaky breath and admits, "I wish you hadn't stopped calling me that. I've missed it. If you had any fucking idea what it does to me…"

Washington chuckles, the warm exhale tickling Hamilton's throat. There is something rueful and a little guilty in the sound. "Why do you think I stopped?"

Hamilton nearly gasps aloud at that, because of course Washington knew. Of course he stopped on purpose. Heaven forbid he let Hamilton keep even this one small, secret, possessive thing.

"You're a stubborn old man," he grouses, clinging to Washington all the harder.

"Yes."

"You don't have to be stubborn anymore.” Hamilton nips at Washington's earlobe, arches deliberately against him. "I'm here. I want you to touch me." It's driving him nuts that Washington's hands aren't on him. That they remain flat against the desk instead, as though Washington _still_ does not trust himself to accept what Hamilton is offering.

One of those hands rises to cup his cheek, as Washington eases back just enough to look Hamilton in the eye.

Hamilton turns his head and kisses Washington's palm, covering the hand with his own. Then, giving in to impatience singing, he guides Washington's touch firmly downward, between the tight press of their bodies. Forcing that powerful grip between Hamilton's spread thighs— _exactly_ where he needs it—and groaning aloud when Washington curls his hand around Alexander's straining cock and gives a squeeze.

" _Fuck_ ," Hamilton breathes, his eyes fluttering involuntarily shut. "Oh fuck, do that again."

Washington huffs another chuckle, but he slides his grip more surely between Hamilton's legs and grinds the heel of his palm forward _hard_.

Hamilton gasps and arches up, capturing Washington's mouth in an uncoordinated kiss. He hums an approving sound around the thrust of Washington's tongue, thrills when Washington's free hand fumbles the elastic band from his hair to card long fingers through the strands. Pleasure whirls at the forefront of Hamilton's senses, and he welcomes the plundering kiss, the increasingly forceful hands, the inferno of heat igniting between their bodies.

He has spent so many fantasies on this. He has spent five years spinning limited memory into detailed scenarios, and still this is better.

When the kiss breaks, Hamilton opens his eyes and blurts, "You can pull my hair."

Washington's eyes open too and stare at him, wide and startled.

"I mean…" Hamilton swallows, self-conscious but unwilling to back down. "I would _really like it_ if you pull my hair. Or hold me down. Or bite. If… If you like those things too."

He thinks maybe he's pushed too far. That Washington _isn't_ into those things, despite how forceful he was the first time. That Washington doesn't want to touch him that way, and Hamilton has _already_ managed to ruin the mood. What other explanation is there for the way Washington gawps at him, shocked and utterly still.

Then, expression not changing, Washington asks, "Do you have a safeword?"

 _Oh_ , that question sends heat-lightning along Hamilton's nerves. He _doesn't_ have a safeword, hadn't thought that far ahead.

"No," he admits breathlessly. "Do I need one?"

" _Alexander_." There is admonishment in that tone.

Hamilton swallows and meets Washington's eyes steadily. "What if I just tell you to stop if I don't feel safe?"

"Will you?" Washington counters dubiously.

"I promise," Hamilton vows with absolute sincerity.

There is still another moment. Considering. Piercing. As Washington weighs his promise.

"Okay," Washington says at last. And then, without further warning, he fists his hand in Hamilton's hair and _yanks_.

Hamilton gasps as his head is forced back, his neck arching taut and exposed to the renewed attentions of Washington's mouth. Not just a kiss this time, but a deliberate sting of teeth as Washington gives him _exactly_ what he has asked for.

God it feels good, and Hamilton moans as Washington sucks a deep bruise into his skin, pleasure with an achy edge. He arches harder in search of friction, rubs against the hand between his thighs. Washington's mouth slides higher on his throat, picking a different spot and giving it the exact same treatment. All the while those fingers are twisted so tightly in Hamilton's hair his scalp stings, overwhelmed tears pricking at his eyes.

It is with thoughtless sincerity that Hamilton blurts, "Thank you, sir."

The words earn him an almost pained groan, and the unasked-for reprieve of Washington's mouth disappearing from his throat.

There is gravel in Washington's voice a moment later when he says, "I should _not_ enjoy hearing you say that."

"What?" Hamilton's mind scrambles. " _Sir_?"

Washington's fist tightens painfully in his hair, and Hamilton gasps aloud at his own answering spike of arousal.

"You are going to be the death of me," Washington mutters gruffly.

Hamilton chokes a startled, breathless laugh. Quiet and short and shaky. "I goddamn hope not," he retorts. "If you die, who's going to fuck me into next week?" Hunger undercuts the veneer of levity. He wants this far too desperately to truly make light of the fact that Washington is touching him. He’s wound so tight that he _aches_ to come, but he also aches for more. For anything at all Washington might offer.

A heartbeat stretches endless between them, and then Washington eases back. His grip on Hamilton's hair does not loosen; his hand between Hamilton's thighs weighs no less heavily. This is not a ceasefire, but Hamilton holds his breath as dark eyes lock hard on his face. Rapt. Possessive.

"Do you have _any idea_ how you look?" Washington asks in a voice full of awe. "Do you know how much I've wanted— How often I've thought about…"

The breath punches hot out of Hamilton's chest. " _Yeah_. Me too. Fuck, there were days I thought the waiting would kill me." Too honest, but he doesn’t care. At least he knows Washington was suffering just as much. It shouldn't make him feel better, but it does. So many times he would've said _fuck it_ and climbed into Washington's lap right there in the Oval Office, but for the certainty that Washington would refuse him.

It's without calculation or eloquence that Hamilton blurts, "I want you to fuck me."

Washington's expression heats and his eyes darken, and using the hand in Hamilton's hair as leverage he drags him closer.

"Don't tease me, Alexander." There is something ruthless in the gravel of the words. "You know damn well I don't have what we need for that."

Hamilton _didn't_ know; but he guessed it. Suspected with near enough certainty that he brought his own supplies.

"I do," he gasps, pleading. "In my luggage."

"And where is your luggage?" Washington rumbles. The sound of his voice goes straight to Hamilton's cock, which gives a violent twitch against the hand still curled between his thighs.

He swallows. "Main foyer." So fucking far away, what was he thinking? Why didn't he slip the condoms in his pocket at the goddamn least? Not likely he'd convince Washington to fuck him without lube—not sure he wants that in any case—but without the condoms there is _no_ chance. Which means extricating himself from hands he never wants to _stop_ touching him. It means leaving this room, an unpalatable prospect even in the name of this very brief errand.

But he posed the question, and he wants, and he _certainly_ does not intend to be a tease. So he reluctantly offers, "I could go—"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence. Too quickly Washington moves, both hands releasing him only to grab on elsewhere. With a rush of vertigo and a jolt of impact, he finds himself flat on his back atop the desk. His legs rise instinctively to wrap around Washington's waist. His wrists are pinned to either side of his head, and there is bruising strength in Washington's hands holding him down. He thrills at the unmistakable hardness that rubs forward between his spread thighs; thrills even more at the rough handling as Washington takes him at his word.

Despite the not-quite-idle way Washington is thrusting against him, there is control in the way he braces himself above Hamilton. Guarded strength in broad shoulders. Consideration in the dark eyes scanning Hamilton's face. His grip is unyielding, pinning Hamilton firmly to the hard surface of the desk.

"Did you honestly think I would let you _leave this room_ once I got my hands on you?" Teasing warmth undercuts the words, despite the somber expression Washington maintains. "You're usually better at planning ahead, my boy."

"I didn't want to assume," Hamilton admits. He sounds wrecked; he sounds _pleading_ , though he doesn't know precisely what he is begging for. "I didn't know if you would let me stay." And then he bites his tongue and doesn't say another word, because he is about to beg Washington to fuck anyway, damn the lube, and damn the condoms, and damn any pretense at responsible decisions.

He clenches his entire jaw in order to keep silent, because he _cannot_ say those things. No matter how much he might mean them in this moment, he knows better. Knows Washington will never agree to hurt him, and that such a plea might make him mistrust Hamilton's judgment completely.

"Don't worry, little one," Washington murmurs as though sensing the barely contained plea. Hamilton shivers at the unexpected pet name—by all rights he should hate it—but it sets even brighter arousal alight in his chest. He is already breathing faster when Washington adds, "I'm sure we can find some equally satisfying way to pass the time."

"Anything," Hamilton arches his back, giddy at how effectively Washington keeps him pinned. "God, anything you want, sir." As long as Washington doesn't stop touching him, Hamilton doesn't care _what_ they do. He would go to his knees in a heartbeat—a thought followed almost immediately by a mind-melting image of _Washington's_ mouth on _him_ —but he knows he could come just as hard exactly like this. Trapped almost immobile on top of Washington's desk, rubbing himself off beneath the muscular weight trapping him, coming in his pants like a goddamn teenager. He wouldn't even be embarrassed about it; not if it's Washington making him come.

Washington ducks low, biting one last mark into Hamilton's shivering throat. Then it's vertigo all over again as he yanks Hamilton toward the edge of the desk and—with delightfully excessive force—breaks free from the circle of Hamilton's legs and shoves him over onto his stomach. Bending him over at the waist, crushing him forward on top of the desk.

Washington's weight settles heavy along his back, and one strong hand captures Hamilton's wrist—pins it down with no difficulty at all.

With the other hand Washington brushes Hamilton's hair aside so he can press a gentler kiss below his ear, right at the hinge of his jaw.

"Still okay?" Washington murmurs. The words tickle Hamilton's skin; they're cautious, but eager too. They burn with an audible affection that leaves Hamilton reeling and lightheaded.

" _Yes_ ," he groans. "Oh fuck yes."

"Good," Washington whispers like a benediction. Then, once again without warning, his hands are moving, his weight shifting, his touch turning purposeful. Hamilton barely has time to register these things before his fly is open, his pants yanked down to bunch around his thighs.

He bites back confused questions—Washington has made it clear he doesn't plan on penetrating him—and beyond that Hamilton is content to wait. To allow every touch and see where this leads, trusting that Washington will make it good.

He breathes a sound of displeasure when those powerful hands disappear completely. The sound earns him only a soft huff of laughter, but a moment later he hears the snick of Washington's zipper and all complaint vanishes unspoken.

"Bring your legs together," Washington says, still not touching him. Hamilton obeys without hesitation, pressing his thighs flush though not too tight. His face heats as he realizes what Washington intends, and he turns his head so he can rest his cheek against the cool surface of the desk.

Washington draws a shaky breath, and Hamilton twists in place to try and peer back over his shoulder. Desperate to see the look on Washington's face that corresponds to that beautiful sound.

But before he can catch a glimpse, there is a hand twisting in his hair, yanking and forcing his gaze forward again.

"Be still," Washington admonishes him roughly. "Be _patient_."

 _I want to see you_ , Hamilton tries to protest, but the words don't come.

From behind him he hears the sound of Washington spitting into the palm of his unoccupied hand, followed by a slick sound that Hamilton assumes is a stroke of that wetness along the length of Washington's naked cock. And then Washington is leaning over him, fingers gentling in Hamilton's hair, carding through the messy cascade.

A moment later several things happen at once: the gentle touch falls away and Washington braces his forearm flat on the desk beside Hamilton's head; Washington's weight settles along his back, an absolute inferno of heat; and Washington guides his cock to the sliver of a gap between Hamilton's thighs, rutting forward with a fractured groan.

That sound kindles hungry affection beneath Hamilton's skin.

Washington's cock is barely slick enough at first, his thrusts not quite even as he finds an impatient rhythm. But he must be wet with precome even now, because instead of chafing, his efforts gradually become smoother. Hamilton trembles, giddy at the quiet noises filling the office, the mingled gasps and grunts, the steady impact of skin-on-skin.

Then Washington is slipping an arm around Hamilton's waist, seeking and finding and curling strong fingers around his aching cock.

" _Yes_." Hamilton sobs the word, bucking forward into the tight circle of Washington's grip. The movement interrupts their rhythm, but he doesn't fucking care. How is he supposed to care about _anything_ in this moment, beyond how goddamn good it feels.

It's almost too much, and it's _maddening_ now, the way he can barely move. Still pinned to the desk, he can't rock his hips enough to take control of the sensations. He tries—his every movement pleads for _more_ —but he has to rely on the stroke of Washington's hand. The finding of a new rhythm beyond his control, as Washington sets the pace, stroking in time with his own increasingly desperate thrusts between Hamilton's bare thighs.

Helpless to speed things up, Hamilton jumps on the one element he _can_ control. He squeezes his thighs together even tighter around Washington's cock, earning a startled grunt of pleasure and a sting of teeth at his shoulder, biting him through his shirt.

" _Fuck_ ," Washington gasps, and the curse makes Hamilton's head spin. He's never heard the man use that word before—not even during their first disastrous encounter—and the knowledge that he has unraveled Washington's control so far…

It leaves him shaken and giddy and overwhelmed.

Washington doesn't last long, all things considered. Another couple thrusts and his coordination falters. He gives up on stroking Hamilton's cock and gets hold of his wrists again, pinning them. Not letting Hamilton touch himself to finish the job.

Hamilton is too frantic to wonder _why_ —fuck, he is _so close_ —so desperate he's nearly sobbing by the time Washington stills on top of him and comes.

It doesn't take Washington long to recover his faculties—to press a lingering kiss to Hamilton's throat—to shift his crushing weight back. When Hamilton's wrists are freed he manages with difficulty to keep his hands on the desk. Impatient, eager, but also curious to see what Washington will do.

There's the sound of a zipper—Washington righting his attire—and then once again the familiar inferno of heat along Hamilton's spine. The warm brush of lips against the shell of his ear when Washington speaks.

"What do you need, Alexander? My hand? My mouth?"

Hamilton's whole body shakes with the force of the sob he chokes back. He's not going to last long either way, but god, the idea of Washington on his knees—

" _Your mouth_." He doesn't even recognize his own voice; he's never sounded so wrecked in his life. "Fuck, _please_."

He exhales hard, a sound of startlement escaping him when Washington drags him up from the desk and turns him, unapologetically putting Hamilton where he wants him. For a moment they are motionless, standing chest-to-chest. Alexander wonders if Washington is going to kiss him; even mindless with desperation, Hamilton would not refuse a kiss.

But Washington just shoves him a moment later, pushing him so that his backside bumps the heavy desk. It is a wordless command to _stay put_ , that even in this addled and turned-on state of mind Hamilton understands. He braces himself against the desk, spreads his legs a little wider. He can't spread them far with his pants caught around his thighs, but it's enough to steady him.

Washington drops to his knees, impossibly graceful. Not just graceful, but fucking _gorgeous_. Hamilton's heart beats faster just looking at him. This can't be real. He can't possibly have something this _good_. Any second now he's going to open his eyes and realize this has all just been a very good, very vivid dream.

But even when he blinks hard, Washington is still there. Still on his knees. Still staring up at Hamilton with something alarmingly like worship written across his face.

"How are you real?" Hamilton can't help it, can't resist the need to _touch_ , to trace his fingers along the smooth arch of Washington's cheek, the line of his brow, the sweep of his jaw.

The smile Washington gives him is all the more powerful for how rare a sight it is. Washington is a somber man. Not opposed to humor, and certainly known to smile, but always in an understated way. Subtle expressions, dry smirks, quiet chuckles.

This? The look on his face now? This is something entirely new. Wide and bright and eloquent, a glimpse of honest feeling. Hamilton has never seen the man so unguarded—so openly _happy_ —and he feels lightheaded at the improbable sight.

"Are you all right?" Washington asks, the fierce brightness of that smile fading behind a shadow of concern.

"Yeah." Hamilton cups the side of Washington's face with his palm, savoring the warmth. "I'm good." He's better than good. He's flying high, giddier than he's ever been in his improbable and dramatic life.

"Okay." Washington's smile softens, and he leans forward, dropping his eyes, parting his lips around the head of Hamilton's cock. His hands frame bony hips as his mouth slides farther along the straining length.

And jesus fucking christ, _of course_ Washington is brilliant at this too. Of course he knows exactly how to tease Hamilton into a perfect frenzy, working him over with an unpredictable rhythm, winding him up even worse than he already was. Perfect suction, perfect slide of lips along his shaft, perfect swipe of tongue along the underside of Hamilton's cock.

The sensations are overwhelming, and Hamilton takes his hand away from Washington's face, drops it to the broad shoulder where he can hold on a little more securely. His other hand still grips the edge of the desk, knuckle-white, grounding himself the best he can. Washington holds him by the hips, steadying him for the relentless crest of pleasure.

After what is either a matter of seconds or an immeasurable eon, Washington opens his throat and swallows Hamilton all the way down.

And oh— _oh_ Hamilton wants to keep his eyes open. He wants to memorize every second of what Washington is doing to him, visuals and all. But he can't overcome the involuntary reactions of his body, the way his eyes squeeze shut of their own volition as a sharp cry of, "Oh, _fuck_ ," escapes his throat.

Washington swallows around him without easing off, and god, that's it, Hamilton can't keep holding back.

" _Sir_ ," he gasps, squeezing tighter at Washington's shoulder in warning. "Sir, I can't—"

Washington withdraws, letting Hamilton slip from his mouth with a wet sound. One hand drops from Hamilton's bony hip to fist around his cock.

When Hamilton manages to open his eyes, he finds Washington staring up at him with an unmistakable air of mischief.

"Go ahead, my boy." Washington gives a firm stroke, but it's the words that finish him. The permission couched in a tone of awe. It sends Hamilton's orgasm spiraling through him, and he cries out—a name he has never before used for himself.

" _George_!" It is both a sob and a plea. It's a confession, wild and hungry and satisfied.

\- — - — - — - —

Epilogue

"How long can you stay?"

It's been hours since Hamilton knocked on Washington's office door. An entire surreal, glorious evening of easy touches and affection, of _looking at each other_ without any of the usual fear that someone might catch them doing it.

Washington still can't believe Hamilton is here; he's having a difficult time convincing his heart that this is real. It's everything he has not dared to hope for.

Hamilton stirs—he's lying across the couch with his head in Washington's lap—both of them more-or-less occupied with their own tasks. Washington has been making a thin pretense at reading a mystery paperback, but is so preoccupied with his boy he honestly doesn't remember the title. Hamilton said he needed to research for an editorial he's writing, but he isn't answering Washington's question; even if he's managed to focus on his work, such complete distraction seems unlikely under the circumstances.

Washington does not even bother to mark his place as he closes the book and sets it on the arm of the couch.

He's not surprised to glance down and find Hamilton asleep. Considering how early his day must have started, the fatigue of travel, not to mention their satisfying but exhausting reunion… Of course Hamilton is tired. _Of course_ he has nodded off in the quiet.

Washington cards his fingers through Hamilton's messy hair. It's a novelty, being able to look his fill without fear of consequences. Impossible to wrap his head around the fact that Alexander is _his_. To touch, and to cherish, and perhaps even to keep.

He has no intention of waking the boy, but Hamilton rouses anyway. Blinking away the disorientation of a nap he did not intend to take. 

Alexander’s gaze clears quickly and slides to Washington's face. "Did you ask me something?"

Washington smiles. He’s almost certain his heart will burst from feeling so many impossible things at once. "How long can you stay?" he repeats softly, letting his hand settle over Hamilton's chest. Pressing his palm to his boy's steadily beating heart.

Hamilton makes a show of considering, but his expression quickly opens into a slow smile, all teeth. "How does forever sound?"

It’s an impractical answer. They are both of them too ambitious to simply settle down and enjoy Washington's wealth and retirement. Things will inevitably get complicated. They always do. There will be challenges to face, and those challenges will never stop.

But it's an _honest_ answer—and exactly what Washington wants to hear—and he lets his own happy chaos of emotion shine on his face. "That sounds absolutely perfect."


End file.
